The End and The Beginning
by blogyourfeelings
Summary: A series of conversations between characters following the return of Moriarty.
1. Another Vow

Baker Street was unnaturally, uneasely calm given the circumstances. To Sherlock Holmes, it seemed almost like an anti-climax. From going to his wretched goodbye to his friends as he departed to his death in East Europe, to the rush of the supposed return of Moriarty, the barking orders and a race to Barts, to being back to Baker Street.

It wasn't as if it was empty- no, once they'd gotten to Molly, they thought it natural to convene back to 221B. Sherlock still felt this sick unrest, like a lead weight at the pit of his stomach, despite the reassurance of his dearest friends' safety. How could that be? If Moriarty was truly back, why hadn't he made a move before revealing himself? Got somebody to snatch Mrs Hudson on her morning paper run, pushed Lestrade into an unmarked van as he made his way to the pub for an evening drink?

The one that plagued his mind, that seemed to always creep to the forefront, was Molly. The moment he became aware of the message streaming around the country, he had thought of her. How foolish he'd been, to leave her behind defenceless after everything she'd done for him. He thought of her, or at least he thought Moriarty would think of her, as his retribution. In Moriarty's fairytale story Molly had been the knight in the shiny white coat and now he would make her a damsel in distress.

"Sherlock?" Mary prompted out his thoughts. She'd taken a seat on the chair across the desk for Sherlock, wiggling a bit to get comfortable on the hard wood.

He opened his eyes but kept his fingers steepled in his signature thinking pose. Rather than speak, he gave out a hum to indicate for her to continue.

Mary's face was very serious as she regarded him, hands clasped, eyes shifting to the kitchen where John, Molly and Mrs Husdon are sitting, giving him the necessary space and quiet to think.

"I think it would be a good idea.." Mary starts, with a delicate softness to her voice that contrast so deeply with the sharpness of her mind. "If Molly was to come and live with me and John for now."

It's not the proposal Sherlock was expecting. His eyes narrow in on her, to try to see the logic of her plan. "Why would that be a good idea?"

"We can protect her as well as any of Mycroft's agent could," Mary replied plaintively, her voice steady in the truth of her statement. "Plus it'll make their job easier, having the three of us under one roof."

"Four."

Mary's eyes light up instantly, managing her first real smile since Sherlock got off the plane. She rubs her swollen belly. "Yes, it will be four rather soon."

"It would hardly be convenient to have a new house guest and new born baby," Sherlock says, his tone marred by scepticism. "Molly can stay here."

"That what Moriarty expects you to do Sherlock," Mary says, with a calmness that Sherlock wishes he could have. "To worry about her so much you slip up. And that could put her in even more danger."

Sherlock mulls over that for a few seconds. Cool, blue eyes gaze back him and prompt him to ask a question. "Why are you so determined to keep her out of danger?"

Both their eyes fall back onto the kitchen, to the three sipping cold cups of tea, all unable or unwilling to fill the silence with mindless babble, all comfortable enough in each others company to leave each other to their thoughts. Sherlock's eyes shift from Molly to Mary. Both sunny in disposition despite their dark (former for Mary) occupations. Both with the innate feminine instinct to nurture, both guardians, with the strength and smarts to help others and themselves. Kindred spirits in a way.

"You gave your life to protect me," Mary remarks. Her hands return to her rest on her stomach. "To protect my family from Magnussen."

"I made a vow, didn't I?" Sherlock quips, the corner of his mouth lifting, to attempt to bring humour into a serious conversation. To forget about how far he'd went to protect his best friend and his wife, the ultimate price he'd been willing to pay to ensure their lives. He'd happily do the same again, for them, for Molly, if he faced the same choice with Moriarty.

"I still owe you. I always will," Mary reveals, her voice thick with emotion. "Even if I saved your life, it wouldn't be enough. Your own life means surprisingly little to you."

"Too many near death experiences do that to you."

This evokes a small, wry twitch of Mary's lips. She leans forward to catch Sherlock's eyes. "Molly's life… that means something to you. A lot, I would say."

Sherlock sees little point in lying to her, so makes an admittance of a truth he cannot hide, that he fears will put his pathologist at risk of an Irish madman out for revenge. "Too much."

"Well then," Mary whispers softly, not deriving pleasure or humour in Sherlock's vulnerability. "Molly stays with us. I promise I'll keep her safe."

"Is that a vow Mrs Watson?" Sherlock questions with a teasing smile.

"I suppose it is," Mary reaches out across the table, careful of her round belly, to squeeze his hand. Sherlock clutches on to it, his eyes flickering back to the kitchen where Molly sits, unaware of their discussion. Unaware of what her life, her safety, means to him. There is a woman who does- a woman he knows to be determined, loyal, loving and a hell of a shot.

He trusted a woman once with his life and she saved it. Maybe, this time he'd have to put his faith in another to save hers.


	2. A Confrontation

As the weeks pass achingly slow, Molly grows used to waking to the peach coloured walls of Mary and John's spare bedroom. To different tea bags, and to John's croaky morning voice, to the cries of a new born baby girl.

She hasn't seen St Bart's since the day of Moriarty's return, and that was a fact that was weighing heavily on her mind. Her job was a vital part of who she was, and to be denied it-**_'I'm sorry Molly, but it's too dangerous just now, they said_**'- was disheartening.

Molly tried to stay upbeat, John and Mary hardly needed another crying baby in their house, but as time marched on, her gloominess grew. Even the presence of Sherlock Holmes did nothing to elevate her weariness, if anything, he aggravated it.

"John and Mary have informed me you are somewhat unhappy with me," He says late one night he is over at the Watson's. Molly suspects Mary has all but forced him into the room with her, to break the tense silence that has been brewing between them since she slapped him in the lab.

She sighs, momentarily pausing from the process of her bedtime tea routine. "I'm unhappy about my life being on hold," She spits, whirring her around to glare at him. "I'm _**furious**_ with you."

"Why?" He asks, confusion evident in his furrowed brow and pouted lips. "I apologised about the drugs."

She has to give out a shuddering, disbelieving laugh. "Oh the drugs were just the start, Sherlock," She bites back. The kettle comes to a boil, the water bubbling angrily as she turns back to pour the liquid into her cup. "Then it was getting engaged to someone to break into an office, then it getting then yourself shot, then leaving your hospital bed to do god knows what-

"It was for-" Sherlock interrupts. His hands were clasped behind his back like a chastised child.

"- A case, I know," Molly finishes mockingly, a petulant edge to her tone. Milk and sugar are thrown into her cup with an annoyed flair. She spins back to face him once again. "But I haven't even finished yet. _Then_ to top that all off you manage to get yourself a death sentence."

"I had my reasons for that." Sherlock defends. His posture is suddenly rigid, and the same inclining she gets when she questions the Watsons too much about Magnussen appears. They're all hiding something, something big, something important enough to kill for.

"I'm sure you did," She mutters, trying to keep her voice steady and her hands from shaking. "Was there a reason you couldn't say goodbye to me before you left?"

"Ah," Sherlock breathes out.

Molly bites down on her lip. "You don't have to bother with an excuse. I know what that means..." She stops for a second, the pain in her chest blooming. Tears collect at the corner of her eyes, threating to reveal the extent of her sorrow. "To not even be worth a goodbye."

It's unspoken between them, but somehow he instinctively knows what she's thinking, what his recent actions have made her believe.

_I don't count,_ her tired brown eyes scream, devoid of their customary sparkle. The usual light that exuded from her was all but diminished, that used to be as bright as that pretty dress she'd worn to the Watson wedding, a beacon of yellow that Sherlock's eyes kept returning to.

"Molly," He whispers, his fingers tips reaching out to bridge an impossible distance.

Molly wipes a hand across her face. "Just go and find him, Sherlock," She pleads, trying to deflect from a painful subject. "Find Moriarty so we can all go back to our lives."

Sherlock shifts forward, head tilted, and Molly can guess how this scene could play out. Her full name uttered out of his perfect lips, a promise to find the villain and return to her, a sweet, chaste kiss on her cheek to sate her anger.

She withdraws, because for once, she thinks that even a speck of kindness from him could break her. He already has, in his recklessness and his unintentional cruelty.

"And when this is over, I'm done," She whispers. It's a quiet, sad, admittance of defeat. All these years, putting up with hurried demands and rude comments, but in the end she was always going to fail against a hurricane of a man. "I'll be your pathologist, help you with your cases. But that has to be it.. I can't-"

Sherlock stops her struggles with a nod and step back. "I understand," He answers, head still bowed, his curls falling limp on his forehead. He stares at her for another moment, a sad melancholy to the tilt of his lips. "I should be going."

A goodbye tries to claw its way up her throat but the silence hangs in the room. Sherlock waits longer than necessary, for what, Molly isn't sure. Forgiveness? A withdrawal of her previous statement? Whatever it is he abandons any hope of it with a swirl of his coat, leaving Molly with a fading view of the back of his head.

This confrontation was meant to be Molly's empowerment- finally calling Sherlock out on his stupid, brash decisions- to make the decision to step back from an impossible man, and her impossible love for him.

She's left to sip at her forgotten tea- wincing at it's weak flavour- as she trudges back to a strange bed. The image of returning to her quiet flat and her unusually morbid job are coupled with a terrifying realisation- that this muted, peaceful life she depicts in her mind when she shut her eyes at night- has a black, gaping hole the size of a consulting detective.


	3. Mycroft's Intervention

Mycroft Holmes has always been in awe of his little brother. Sometimes at his ridiculous antics in their younger days, his blatant disregard for his superior mind, the juxtaposition of _who he wanted to be_ and _who he really was._

It was why he worried in his elder years, about that bright young boy who'd run around the fields with a large dog at his back, letting the wind carry his wild laughter. That boy- the one Mycroft so secretly adored- was long gone by university, battered by barrage of hateful comments from school children, teachers and others.

He had fretted that the closeness Sherlock felt with his adopted family- John and Mary, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly- were an attempt to eridicate the painful isolation of childhood. Another crutch for his loneliness, another drug of sorts.

The more Sherlock grew accustomed to Mrs Hudson's loving fussing, to Greg's calls to help him with cases, to John's company at Baker Street- the more Mycroft was reminded of the faded image of a laughing child tearing through green fields with a grin.

Mycroft resented it in a way- he'd fought for years to bring back his brother from the despair of drug addiction- loving him in the best way Myrcoft knew he could, with a expensive rehab facility and a call about a job helping the Yard. He'd never had been comfortable with his protective instinct, never been good at expessing his concerns. Often he would offer Sherlock guidance, that he thought then would prepare him for the cruel ignorance of the general population, but he now feared had been damaging and disheartening.

_'People will never truly love us Sherlock because they'll never understand us. They fear us. Never, ever forget that.'_

A little Sherlock, curly haired and damped eyed, had given a solemn nod. Because Mycroft was always right. He was the smart one, the one who couldn't care less what his uneducated classmates thought of him, who flinched away from their parent's affection, to only take refuge in history books and political doctrines.

Mycroft, under the guise of the controlling, cold, older sibling has been trying to make amends for his misgivings as a brother. That's what had brought him to an unfamilar home, to a too bright kitchen, and an uncharasterically grumpy pathologist.

"Good Afternoon, Molly," Mycroft greets pleasently.

Too pleasently for Molly liking. She sighs, still worn at the edges from her last conversation with a Holmes in this kitchen. "What'd you want Mycroft?"

"Just a chat."

"About?" Molly probes.

"My brother, of course," Mycroft exhales heavily. He sits at the Watson's small breakfast table. "Isn't it always?"

Molly lips twitch into a half smirk and she takes her place across from him.

"I've had several calls from Mrs Hudson. Apparently, Sherlock's been composing a lot during the night," Mycroft informs her. "She claims the neighbours can't sleep for sad violin music."

"And you care a lot about Sherlock's neighbours lack of sleep?" She asks, a sardonic smile plastered on her face. It's a defence, because she knows Mycroft is aware of Sherlock's visit to the Watson's early in the week.

"Naturally," Mycroft returns, with a smirk of his own. It drops immediately, his mouth morphing his face into a more serious expression. The one she imagines he gives in his day job. "We all know Sherlock plays his violin when he's thinking," Mycroft utters, eyes entrapening Molly in a sincere, solemn gaze. Molly spots a sad melancholy there too. Mycroft continues, quiet and calm. "Now what would he be thinking about to play such sorrowful music?"

Molly feels a rush of guilt under Mycroft's unwavering stare. From all his signals, it's clear to Molly that Mycroft thinks whatever she has said to Sherlock on his visit is the root of his current unhappiness. She hadn't imagined she'd ever have the power to hurt Sherlock, but she supposes that often the most standoffish, arrogant of people are the easiest to wound. "I-I'm not sure," She stutters.

"Love," Mycroft states. The word tastes foreign on his tongue.

It sounds unfamilar to Molly as well. "Love?" She asks shakily, because she understands the impossible implication of what he's suggesting.

"My brother has always been troubled by it," Mycroft admits. He looks contrite in his next confession. "I suppose that's partly my fault."

"What'd you need me to do?" Molly inquires. Finally she feels like she has a purpose for the first time since the mess of the aftermath of Moriarty's return. All she wants to do is _help someone, do something_, instead of wait and wait in the warm, safe confines of the Watson's home.

"I'm not entirely sure," He replies with a rueful smile. "You're very good at understanding what he needs. Just…understand him."

_Understand him_. The words echo in her mind like a broken reel. She can't quite comprehend them, but she has a gut feeling that soon she truly might. That she can't give up on him yet.

"I'll do my best," She promises, a tentative smile creeping onto her face.

Mycroft mirrors her pleased expression. He stands up from his chair, clearly having achieved what he came here to."In return, I will do my upmost to get you back to work. I know how desperate you are to get back to your normal life."

Her mouth widens at his comment, feeling lighter than she has in weeks. A promise from a Holmes is nothing to be trifled with.

Her job was important to her, but there was something tangibly more precious to her. So she blurts out to Mycroft's receding figure. "You'll keep him safe, won't you? From Moriarty?"

"Of course," He pledges, whirling back with raised eyebrows, as if he surprised she even had to ask. He stops in his tracks, his mouth tilting upwards in amusement. "It's a tough job though. Perhaps it's a two man operation?"

Molly cannot contain a affectionate grin. For all his faults, Molly knows Sherlock's brother is decent man and a caring brother. "I'm happy to help," She says, brown eyes sparkling in the afternoon light of the kitchen.

Mycroft parts with a goodbye and genuine smile. An old flickering image reappears, more vibrant than ever, but transformed. Sherlock's not a boy, nor the troubled young man the boy would become, but a man with the roughish, jovial grin of a five year old. He's not alone either, strolling hand in hand with a petite, brown haired woman Mycroft knows well. She lights up the image with her presence, her smile, her warmth.

Mycroft had to laugh at Molly's earlier question. _**You'll keep him safe, won't you?**_ He has no choice, he's never had choice in caring about his brother. Its innate instinct in him, buried deep, and it's taken him to drug dens in Cambridge, to Serbia, to Appledore, to the warm, homely Watson residence. He knows there's a hard battle still raging on- Moriarty looms like a black cloud, and they can only wait to see what reign of terror he will bring down upon them. But as he makes his way onto the street to a waiting car, Mycroft can only see blue sky and an ever-burning yellow sun.


End file.
